I have been born in this skin,
and have loved it wholeheartedly.
I've watched it grow, and play,
nurturing it, neglecting it. I know
my shaking knees do not smile,
the sweat on my palms do not taste sweet.

I know the sent of my body; every follicle
of hair which grows wild,
soft and familiar, like the forests of home.
I love the wrinkles, and dimples,
the great mass of my flesh.
My fingers play across it
as a child would trace her fingers over
the body of a lake, or the frost
on windows during a cool morning.

I speak in tongues, in dreams, and images
that no other could hope to know.
I walk my mind in summer afternoons,
and nights on a lonely beaches.

I imagine,
ugly and silly,
stupid and witty,
wonderful, fanciful,
and frightening blurrs;
and they are all beautiful,
and they are all my own.

I love myself, even when I am unfair
even when I am wrong, and selfish, and angry.
Even when I wish to rip at myself
until I’m a harmless mass
of calcium and iron.
Even when I heave under the scale of things
so much larger than this, so much darker and older
and deeper than this,
there is a voice in my heart that says:

no.

You are a daughter of dying stars

and You are stronger than the trees you love

and You are not perfect

and I love You.

and I forgive You.

my shaking knees do not smile,
the sweat on my palms do not taste sweet.

So tell me stranger,
what do you know of loving me?

I think that sleeping with somebody
(I actually mean sleeping)
Is so intimate
Because,
Your partner
Could wake up
In the middle of the night
And **** you,
But you trust her
Not to

Oh how I miss the stars,
The ones in the sky that I would often gaze upon,
always thinking of you.

Those stars always made my heart feel heavy.
Made me feel like I was so large, and so small.

Eventually those stars in the sky were replaced by the stars of your eyes,
the little reflection of your glasses, the one's I picked for you.

I stopped going out and looking at stars once winter came.
But that was okay, because I had your stars.
Now it's heating up,
and we're cooling down.

I'll be reunited with my old stars soon,
Just after I've said goodbye to yours.

One day I will
Publish ten books of poetry and
Burn eleven of them.

I carry you with me,
Woven
In between
The frayed
Ends of my oversized
Sweater,
And the
Hollow pauses
Of conversation
Saved for thoughts
Too sacred
To be revealed.
I carry you outside of me,
Like the thin layer
Of frost
That dances lightly
Before collapsing onto the
Ancient windows of
My two door Oldsmobile.
I carry you above me,
Your presence as big as the
Wide open sky,
Yet also as unattainable.
Reaching above,
My fingers stretch out to grasp
You, but instead
Are met with the vacant
Feeling of air
Drifting between my
Clammy palms.
I carry you beneath me,
Supporting my
Staggering steps
As I drag my heavy feet across the
Uneven ground.
I carry you with me.
                                                                                   MB.